Fault
by Stodgey
Summary: A different ending, a what could have been, a slow destruction. JackRalph slash. Dark.


**Disclaimer: **Golding owns all. He's clever like that.

* * *

Bruises look different in sunlight. Ralph folded his fingers over the purple smudges, lining up his handprint with the slightly larger one on his arm - forefinger to the darkest smear on his skin, thumb to the one curling into the crease of his elbow - and pressed down lightly to feel the dull ache, brow furrowed in concentration.

"It was your fault, you know."

Ralph didn't look up. A foot moodily kicked sand at him, then a shadow smoothed across his back and the hot sand shifted as Jack flopped down beside him.

"Your fault," he said again.

Ralph canted a glance across at the other boy through the messy, dirt-encrusted hair in his eyes, watching as Jack shut his eyes and lay back, spreading soot-and-clay-smeared arms wide on the golden ground.

"Wasn't it?"

Not being rescued, that had been his fault. Piggy dying, perhaps his too. He couldn't decide on Simon's death, because his hands had been sticky with gore at the end of it all but there had been the storm and the madness and the island.

This, though. This wasn't his fault.

"Yes," he said, anyway, because Jack was looking for an answer and it was the only correct one to give; the only answer that wouldn't cause angry words and scuffed knees and Jack's hand in his hair, keeping him still so he could whisper spite into his ear. "My fault."

Jack grinned, slow and steady, and kept his eyes shut. "Good," he said.

Ralph fingered the bruises again, set his jaw, and stared out to sea. The sun off the water was so bright it hurt his eyes. He kept looking, though. Kept looking.

* * *

Jack was grinning, his teeth a gleaming slash through the muck of his war paint, and his fingers were outstretched and covered in clay.

"Come on," he said, an excited promise in his voice. "Come on."

Outside the entrance to the cave, Ralph could hear the rest of the biguns jostling together in the sunlight, shouting half-formed things, whooping, calling, ready for the hunt. Inside, there was only darkness and cold sand beneath him and Jack leaning over him.

"I don't want to," he said again, but it didn't mean anything because Jack gripped the back of his neck, jerked him forward and smeared the dark red stuff over his left cheek and down his nose, his fingers slippery and smooth. Ralph dug his useless hands into the sand and clawed at the soft ground, knowing if he shoved Jack away like he very much wanted to then there would only be violence. The fingers left his face for a moment, then came back with cold ash, and Ralph held himself rigidly still as Jack rubbed the bitter substance across his cheekbone, over the curve of his eye, down his neck and across the skin of his chest, a fierce look of concentration on his face as he worked.

When he was finished, he got up and said, "You won't have a spear. Roger doesn't want you to. He says you're still dangerous." He paused and looked at Ralph, tilted his head to one side consideringly, pale eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you?"

Ralph mutely shook his head. Jack smirked, triumphant.

"That's what I told him." He jerked his head towards bright sunshine. "They're ready. Come on."

Ready to hunt for meat in a jungle that was still blackened from fire. Ash soft and crumbly on the brittle ground, the call of the hunt in his ears, and Jack and Maurice and Robert and Bill and Roger shadows with spears. Fire licking at his heels, his side a crippling ache, the sea in front of him, _salvation_, so near, so near, and the hunt closing steadily in on him.

Ralph hesitated and Jack's eyes lingered uncomfortably on his face, sharp and bright. Then the chief held out a hand, streaked with paint rough over scabs, nails bitten down to the red-raw skin and making Ralph's mind up for him.

* * *

It was dark and the bark of the tree was rough and wet beneath his fingers. He gripped it hard, chest heaving with exertion and raw delight, the night time rain slicked cool on his bare skin. The hot and heavy pressure of the last few days had finally broken, and the storm above him was grey and purple with lightning, the air thick with the heady smell of burnt ozone and damp earth.

He wasn't meant to be here, not now, not when Jack was asleep, but he was far from caring. He felt free. Gloriously free.

Ralph stiffened when the spear point brushed across the nape of his neck, his heart thudding dully in his chest, and he clamped down hard on the sudden hot need to duck, jump, run, _get away. _It was a useless, irrational desire, he knew, because the hunter behind him would kill him if he tried, his spear buried deep in his back, and something like loss jerked in the pit of Ralph's stomach because the rain still falling was only cold now. He shut his eyes and stood motionless as the weapon point trailed languidly down the length of his spine, following the wash of raindrops and lightly biting into his skin.

Roger's voice was soft in his ear. "I know what you're up to, Ralph. I know what you're doing."

The boy shifted forward and pressed his body up against the line of Ralph's back, and he wasn't as tall as Ralph, wasn't as strong, but there was danger in the hot slide of his skin, in the slippery wetness of his hair against Ralph's neck. Roger had murdered Piggy. Ralph sometimes thought Roger was mad.

"He tried to kill you, Ralph," the boy whispered into his skin. "Why are you helping him?"

Ralph's fingers were gripped white on the trunk of the tree, his hair dripping wet in his eyes, his shoulders rigid with tension. He thought: _because he's better than you_ and remained silent.

Roger paused, then said: "Go back to his cave. You're not allowed out by yourself," and his voice was twisted with malice, as if he knew what Ralph had been thinking. In the morning, Roger would tell the tribe he had been trying to escape, and he would be tied up again. Beaten, perhaps.

Ralph lay awake that night, shivering and listening to the rain and Jack's heavy breathing, his skin still cold and damp. Thinking about Simon and Piggy and rescue.

* * *

The sun was hot on his back and his hands were steady as he held out the coconut shell of clear water, waiting blankly for Jack to take it. Noon was nearing, and the work of building shelters would soon come to a halt before it became too hot. Ralph already had the selection of ripe fruit gathered in the coolest corner of the cave for when Jack called for his food.

Ralph could feel Sam and Eric watching him.

When Jack said _stay _or _follow me_ or _go there_, Ralph did, and the two identical pairs of eyes tracked his movement. The twins didn't speak to him anymore, just silently watched, and Ralph had recognised their initial confusion when he had stopped fighting Jack, when he had stopped trying to escape. And when Jack had untied his wrists and Ralph had stayed on his heels like some kind of obedient pet, their joint gaze had turned wary, suspicious. As if he was the enemy now.

And Ralph had to tell himself every day that it didn't matter, they couldn't understand, it was for the best. Because he knew that Roger was watching him too, eyes cold and sharper with hunger, and he had to make it all seem real, whatever the cost.

_Lead by example_, his father had once told him, ruffling his hair, and the man was little more than a warm smile, polished black shoes and a pair of large, warm hands in his mind now. But it was the only way Ralph knew to keep Jack in control of the tribe, and that was all that mattered.

Because Roger was watching, wanting control, waiting for him to slip.

* * *

Fingers trailed over his body, Jack's touch light and curious, and Ralph's muscles were trembling in the effort to keep still. Jack's eyes were narrowed and fixed on his face, absorbing every reaction with an intensity that made Ralph uneasy, and Ralph's hands clenched and unclenched with an uncertainty by his sides.

"This is alright?" Jack asked, his voice harsh in its softness and his eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown.

Ralph nodded jerkily, and bit down hard on the soft inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stay quiet, choking back the _no, please, I don't want to _that was bitterly welling up at the back of his throat. Because he had to do this. Had to give in. No choice.

Jack smiled tentatively, and it was unexpected because the expression wasn't predatory or fierce, his face pale, freckled, washed of dirt and grime. He shifted down on the sandy floor of the cave and gathered Ralph in his arms, lying beside him and smoothing his calloused hands down the rigid line of Ralph's back, bending his head and lightly brushing his lips across the flickering skin covering Ralph's jugular.

"I didn't think you wanted to," Jack breathed, and his touch was warm and gentle. "I would have -- But I didn't think you wanted to. Wasn't going to force you."

Ralph shut his eyes and thought of Roger and how much worse it would be if he were chief. He didn't respond to Jack's touches and soft words, flinched away at the boy's childish words of comfort (_it's okay, it's okay_), forced himself lax and cooperative when Jack turned him and placed his head on his chest, awkwardly petting his hair and telling him to go to sleep.

That night, Ralph cried in his sleep. He woke to his own screams in his ears and Jack's fingers tight about his wrists, struggling to keep Ralph from clawing bloody gouges into his face. Jack's eyes were wide with shock, hurt, his face pale and drawn, and when Ralph had calmed down enough, Jack left him without a word, moving stiffly out onto the moonlit ground and into the dark depths of the jungle. Ralph fell asleep before the boy returned and, when he woke the next morning, Jack was sleeping on the bare ground at the very back of the cave, as far from their shared bed of grass and leaves as possible.

* * *

Sam hadn't given in easily. He had struggled and bitten and scratched, and it had taken both Maurice and Robert to restrain him, Bill to bind him with rough creepers. When finally secure, they had kicked him viciously for his efforts, spat on him, and Ralph had watched it all from Jack's side, his fingernails digging sharply into his palms.

Sam (who had grown bigger than Eric, broad shoulders and wide chest, and was still growing) hadn't liked what Roger had said to his brother. Roger had made Eric cry, and Sam had hit him hard, bloodied his nose and blacked his eye. Ralph thought it was deserved. Jack didn't, and an example had to be made because Roger was still his right-hand man, after all.

Jack turned to him with a thin-lipped smile and held out the whipping switch, his expression unreadable behind the mask of clay and soot and grime. Ralph looked at him, horror crawling up his throat, hesitated for a long moment, unwilling, then reached for the switch, his fingers tightly enclosing around its thin length.

He stepped forward and Sam bared his teeth and tensed in his bonds, but Ralph didn't miss the relief in his eyes and hated himself all the more because, whatever Sam thought, he wouldn't go easy on him. Jack was behind him, watching, waiting, as was the rest of the tribe, and this was a test that he couldn't fail. Ralph swallowed down bile and panic, raised the switch and thought: _I'm sorry _as hard as he could.

By the end of it, Sam was choking on his sobs and trying to curl into a protective ball, prevented only by the creepers still holding him. He had said _Ralph _three times, the first one confused, the second a plea, the third torn from him in desperation and pain. Ralph turned and moved back to Jack, held out the switch with a hand that didn't tremble and didn't meet the other boy's hard gaze. Roger stepped forward and Jack silently handed him the switch with a short nod.

Wiping sweat and tears from his face, Ralph pushed his way through the silent crowd of painted boys and stumbled to the fringe of the jungle. In the cool shade of the trees, he violently retched, spitting and gagging on bile, trying to shut his ears as Sam's screams started again.

* * *

Jack didn't ask anymore, not after that first time, and Ralph could tell himself that it didn't matter because he wouldn't object to it anyway, but he knew it did. Jack was slow, careful, almost loving, and Ralph didn't react, just lay there accepting it because that was all he could allow himself to do.

Jack didn't like that, and he soon learnt there were ways to get him to react, even if he didn't want to. He would use his teeth, his nails, marking Ralph's body with scratches and bruises and revelling in every stuttered gasp of breath, every wince, every soft cry.

Afterwards, Jack would sit up and watch him until Ralph fell asleep, his eyes pale and sad in the gloom of the cave, the words: _this is your fault, your fault _soft on his lips. Ralph thought he was right, though he didn't say anything. Just screwed his eyes up tight and wondered what it would have been like if they had killed him on that long ago day when the sky had been black with smoke.

Better, he thought. Easier.

_End_


End file.
